


présent crénelé

by Jagged



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jagged/pseuds/Jagged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras cannot be defined, and where there is smoke there also change. (modern-day, genderqueer!Enjolras)</p>
            </blockquote>





	présent crénelé

They’re on the steps at Montparnasse station the evening after the anti- _mariage pour tous_ protest, watching as people slink back with their slogans and their placards to the province. Courfeyrac’s leaning on the railings above, checking newsfeeds and early coverage from her phone and sharing the worst bits aloud, while Jehan’s smiling sickly-sweet at passerbys down on the platform, his nose still bloody from when he got cornered in the subway for daring to greet his friends with a kiss on the cheek, for painting his nails and wearing heavy boots with women’s shawls.  
  
It’s Enjolras who draws the eye, though; Enjolras who only writes when _nous_ can stand in place of _je_ , who looks as much at home among the Louvre sculptures gallery as in smoky bars after dark, under Notre-Dame cathedral windows or worn-down walls over in the XIVe, who wears too-large jackets in red and gold, who talks about liberty and equality at nine in the morning in hushed amphitheatres and at noon over coffee and sandwiches and at eleven at night over the rumble of trains and has the gall to believe, utterly, in those things, doesn’t relent until heard and acknowledged, does not give ground, never apologizes, shrugs off insults and bulldozes over them, burns, seems in turns a machine or an angel.  
  
Meanwhile Grantaire remains all too human: swallows the scorn in other voices with a swig of his bottle, adds it to the day’s tally of insults and derogatory comments, morosely wonders at how predictable and unimaginative bigots are.  
  
_You’re making it harder on yourself_ , he tells Enjolras every other month when he’s been drinking a bit too hard, _you’re fighting too hard, for causes that don’t even concern you; this country isn’t ready, honestly, neither is the world, let time run its course, you’ll get yourself arrested or beaten up or killed; the language itself doesn’t recognize you, never will, wants you to choose and you can’t not, just give up, live while you can_ , and yet Enjolras doesn’t choose, and contorts the language into desired shapes, and Grantaire, who likes to think himself a specialist in lost causes, is more deeply caught every time Enjolras plays on syntax or uses first person possessive to avoid gendered pronouns.  
  
“We should make out,” Grantaire says, cutting into what sounded like plans for organizing the counter-protest. He shrugs under the hard stare Enjolras levels at him, points to a couple still lugging a placard with _le mariage = un homme + une femme_ scrawled on it.  
  
“I’m serious. Look at them! They're freezing, yet proud of themselves. Have you seen how they look at us? Whoever said judging is wrong visibly knew nothing about the vindication it brings. How pleasant life must be for them! Enjolras, if we must insist on change then it is our duty to ruin their day, since they would ruin our lives. It literally rained on their parade! The least we can do is give them a proper send-off. Kiss me.”  
  
“Easy, Grantaire,” Courf says from her spot from the stairs while Enjolras answers with nothing but that look maintained until Grantaire has to look away before his hands get away from him or he does something stupid like fall to his knees, and that’s it, and that’s enough, Enjolras’ eyes on him and the knowledge later they’ll both be on the streets with paint on their fingers, streetlights caught in the curls of Enjolras’ hair and graffiti of resistance poems taking shape under Enjolras’ hand, _ne t'attarde pas à l'ornière des résultats_ , _ne te courbe que pour aimer_ in bright colors over cracked paint and dirty bricks.  
  
Later: rain falling on both of them as they hide from police patrols, Enjolras a body undefined, a golden blur of purpose and smoke; Grantaire thinking of the same poet, of words spelling out _Where there is smoke there also is change_ , trying to remember if that one died in the war or if, maybe, there’s hope.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. french as a language is extremely binary, has no neutral, and it's really, really hard to hold a conversation and not be forced to gender yourself by the way grammar works. there are ways, but however you do it there's serious word gymnastics involved every time you communicate, unless you give in and default to either masculine or feminine forms (which doesn't strike me as a very Enjolras kind of thing to do)   
>  2\. just to clear up bc i know this is a cultural thing, in france kisses on the cheek are a customary way of greeting friends or acquaintances you're on good terms with – if you’re a woman. men kissing male(-presenting) friends, in my experience, is pretty specific to some parts of the gay community   
>  3\. title & lines at the end are from rené char's feuillets d'hypnos, which are poetic fragments written while he was in the maquis; rough translations in order "crenelated present", "do not linger in the rut of results" and "bend only to love"


End file.
